You also saw me at the tee-ball games. I sat alone in the bleachers, the mother separate from other mothers - the sick, weak, puny antelope cut off by the rest of the herd. Those other mothers? They didn't invite me to their after-game picnics. When the sign-up sheet for bringing in the post-game snacks went around, it passed by me. None of them asked if we were signing up for soccer, and would I like to join the carpool.

At the time, it occurred to me I was being snubbed, though I wasn't good at figuring out why. Every once in a while, I glanced up from the novel I was reading or the crossword I was puzzling or the menthol cigarette I was smoking to hear female voices shrieking at my child: "C'mon! You can do it! Run, run, run! Hustle, hustle, hustle!"

I watched my son stroll to first. He plopped his bottom on the base, possibly exhausted, but more likely bored. "Get up!" those other mothers shrieked. "Where's your fighting spirit? Where's your hustle?"

I watched them pound their fists in the air like they were banging on a door or joining Communists in solidarity. I marveled at their enthusiasm. It was nice they cared, but it was a tee-ball game, for Christ's sake, played by five-year-olds. I'd light up another smoke and get up from the bleachers to go sit someplace quieter, like my car. I waited for the tee-ball game to end so I could go home and wait for tee-ball season to end.